


Sugar and lighter fluid

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: Longitudinal Cohort [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, Love, M/M, minor injury, these two idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11160828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: John throws open the door to the flat and races around the corner into the kitchen.  A cracked, graduated cylinder is smoking on the kitchen table, and Sherlock is on the floor against the wall, clutching his hand and gritting his teeth.





	Sugar and lighter fluid

**Author's Note:**

> Another little floofy, fluffy one shot

John closes the door to 221B with a loud clunk and a heavy sigh of relief. It’d been a long, trying day, one of those days John wonders why he even bothers to remain at the surgery. Norovirus was sweeping the elementary schools—both state and public—so his day was filled with all ages of children vomiting in every corner of the office. 

 

It’s awful, boring, dreadful, tedious…the sorts of things that readily made John simultaneously exhausted and so keyed up he could jump out of his skin. Also, it’s days like these that John is extra glad Mary’s—or whatever her name was actually—pregnancy was fake.

 

Of course, he also has other reasons to be glad. The biggest of which is undoubtedly sitting on a chair in the kitchen, performing all manner of disgusting and poisonous experiments while he waits for John to get home.

 

Sherlock insisted, on the mornings when John shrugged off Sherlock’s grabby fingers and rolled out of bed, that there was no need to work; they had more than enough money from reward (Dead or Alive, and John was more than happy to deliver her Dead) and Sherlock’s trust fund, and wouldn’t he prefer to just be with Sherlock all the time and solve cases and experiment? Of course, John knew how unrealistic and rather unhealthy that idea was—they were already far too codependent and had only gotten worse in the past few months since John came back to Baker Street—but days like today made John want to jump at that suggestion. 

 

He’d been counting the minutes until he could come home to his precious Sherlock, maddening though he was. The tension of the day, vomiting children, finicky and downright _stupid_ parents, and simply the monotony of having to spend all Goddamn day dealing with a simple stomach virus (he was a trauma surgeon, for Chrissakes!) had put John close to the edge.

 

But Sherlock is upstairs. He’d changed much in the past three months, is warm and affectionate and occasionally clingy and far more open with his emotions than John had ever expected, or even thought he deserved. He is still very much Sherlock: moody and petulant and far too prone to call John an idiot, and he still runs off on crime scenes and insults clients and he still insists on storing rotting body parts in the vegetable crisper. But he also curls into John’s side or against his back at 3 in the morning now. He crawls into his lap while John is in his chair watching the evening news, nuzzling into his neck and humming as John scratches his scalp. He allows John to hold him down in their bed, or he holds John down, as they both do their best to wipe away the pain of the five years they wasted. And that mouth…nothing could instill comfort or desire like those full, soft lips, eager and pliant, and that warm, wet, silky mouth.

 

John grunts and adjusts himself in the flimsy scrub trousers he had to change into after the first child vomited on him. He doesn’t even want sex. He’s too drained for sex. His body is betraying his mind and mood; Sherlock has unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on when you ask John) always had that effect on him. Absently, he reaches into the inside pocket on his jacket and twists the silver ring tucked there between his fingers. It’s a bit too soon, but...also long overdue. Years overdue. Overdue since maybe the moment John dropped his first cardboard box on the sitting room floor. He doesn’t even have a plan yet, or even a distinct timeline, but he’d bought it two weeks after they were both safe and sound back in Baker Street, the spectre vanquished. It’s been in his jacket since, an anchor to remind him what he gets to come home to now. 

But John is exhausted and grumpy and has the beginnings of a headache starting to pulse behind his eyes. All he wants is a hot shower, some warm take-away, and to curl up in bed with Sherlock and the telly he insisted go in there when he first moved down to Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock had huffed and groaned and threw himself on the sofa in a sulk, but the next day had a lovely new Smart television delivered to the flat.

 

A long *BANG* and a screech interrupt John’s reverie in the entryway and have him bolting up the stairs. “SHERLOCK?!”

 

John throws open the door to the flat and races around the corner into the kitchen. A cracked, graduated cylinder is smoking on the kitchen table, and Sherlock is on the floor against the wall, clutching his hand and gritting his teeth. 

 

“John,” he grunts, and curls in on himself. 

 

“Fucking Christ, Sherlock!” John wraps a hand around his bicep and yanks him off the floor. Sherlock doubles as he gets to his feet, inhaling deeply. He looks as though he might throw up. John doesn’t give him a minute as he manhandles him into the loo. 

“What the fuck, Sherlock?” John drops the lid of the toilet and pushes Sherlock down, quickly reaching for the first aid kit in the cabinet under the sink. Years of living with a walking explosion has prompted John to hide one in every room of the flat, so there’s always one available in whichever room Sherlock has decided to be negligent in. John drops it loudly on the sink counter and reaches out to rip the safety glasses off Sherlock’s face. At least he had the forethought to wear those.

This was NOT what John wanted to do when he got home.

“Jeeeeesusss…” John hisses, then not-so-gently tilts Sherlock’s head back so can get a good look at whatever damage has been done. Whatever it is smells awful: burnt hair (Sherlock’s), kerosene (of course), and…something like, menthol? There is something gel-like and sticky spattered across Sherlock’s chest, cooling and hardening into his expensive shirt and undoubtedly onto his skin. John huffs a breath out his nose and gently tugs on the collar, gauging exactly what he’s dealing with here. Sherlock flinches as it tugs on his skin, where it’s apparently seared to his chest.

“John!”

“Yes, well, we have to get it off, Sherlock. And it’s either me or a trip to the AE…show me your hand.”

“John…”

“What the hell is this, Sherlock?” John takes Sherlock’s shaking hand in his, streaked with a grayish, translucent, waxy material. It’s sparkling like spun sugar and Sherlock’s skin is reddened around the edges, evidence of the burns underneath. John plucks a pair of tweezers from the metal box. “Fuck.”

“Vaporub.”

“And?” John gently tugs the edge of the gunk. It’s hardened now, and lifts a bit, but it pulls Sherlock’s skin with it. He flinches and yanks his hand back. John, ever the competent physician, snatches it back in half a second. He’s very used to dealing with the skittery animal that is an injured Sherlock.

“Lighter fluid.”

“AND?” John tries pulling again, gently.

“Icing sugar…JOHN!” Sherlock wheels back with such force that his hand knocks the first aid kit to the floor. Plasters, gauze, and tubes of various gels skitter across the tile floor.

“Sherlock,” John huffs through his nose, pinching his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. His beginnings-of-a-headache is now a full-blown headache and is pulsing behind his eye. “Why ON EARTH,” he looks back up at Sherlock, eyebrows up. “Were you making what is essentially NAPALM in our fucking kitchen? And WHY did you heat it up?”

Sherlock shrugs. “It was the closest thing I could hypothesize to being similar to the accelerant in the loo from the file Geoff brought the other day. A homemade explosive, without the intricacies of those found in government-tracked websites. I was correct, it seems.”

John squeezes his eyes shut again and shakes his head, chuckling in one of those strange emotions Sherlock instills in him, that he still can’t name. Fond Anger? Fond _Resignation_? A teensy bit of happiness even though this was NOT what he wanted to do when he got home?

“Of course. I suppose I should have known better.” 

“You really should have, John. You presumably know me well enough to know I don’t mind safety precautions when experimenting, especially when you gave me express permission.”

“I told you to help Greg, NOT make napalm in the kitchen,” John plunks the tweezers on the edge of the sink and straightens. “Don’t move. I’m going to grab some lidocaine. You essentially have burned sugar gel stuck to you…your skin is going to come with it. Sugar is bad enough, but leave it to you to put Vaporub and fucking kerosene—”

“Lighter fluid, John.”

“—whatever, Sherlock. You’re an idiot. Stay.”

John stomps into the bedroom, yanking open the top drawer in the dresser. His small lockbox is buried under some jumpers; he knows Sherlock knows where it is and what’s in there, but honestly hasn’t touched it other than the first time he pointed out to John he knew it was there. Then he simply placed it back and shut the drawer. No doubt he’s also figured out the combination. John punches it in and flips the top. His Sig, some morphine ampules from when Sherlock was first out of hospital after being shot (John suppresses a shudder), co-comadol tablets and ah! A bottle of lidocaine. He grabs it, as well as one of the single-use syringes and heads back downstairs. He pauses briefly at the fridge, grabbing several needleless syringes of sterile saline he keeps there for the express purpose of Sherlock-related burn injuries. Althought with a sugar burn...cool water won’t halt much.

“You know,” John stomps back into the bathroom, opening the cabinet to yank some gloves out of the box stored there. “You’re lucky you didn’t get your face.” He flicks the faucet on and thoroughly washes his hands. “Although there is some in your hair. I’ll cut it out after I peel that shit off your skin. I want to try again, on your hand, without the lidocaine. Fast. Your skin’s already damaged, I’d rather pull it off on your hand than your chest.” John towels his hands dry and slips on the nitrile gloves.

“Fine, John.” Sherlock’s eyes follow John as he kneels in front of him, between his bony knees, and grabs his right hand. It’s shaking slightly, the skin around where the shiny, greyish tar mottled and red from the burns. John gently rubs his thumb in circles on the intact skin above the burn.

“You know,” John starts talking nonsense, as he always does when attending a patient. He catches Sherlock rolling his eyes at John’s instinct to distract him. It’s one thing they didn’t explicitly teach in school and he had to pick up once he started practicing. Good bedside manner; distract the patient. He used to do it while changing the bandages on Sherlock’s bullet wound. “I could write a book on all the strange injuries of yours I’ve treated. ‘A Doctor’s Life with Sherlock Holmes: Homemade Napalm and Decomposing Fingers Next to the Produce.’ I think it’d sell well—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, it makes you look—JOHN!” John can’t believe that shriek actually came from Sherlock. Sure enough, John had distracted him long enough to quickly rip the Tacky Shit—as it will henceforth be known—off the back of his hand. “John…” Sherlock jerks back then leans forward, exhaling hard through his teeth. Sherlock is generally very good with pain, able to shut it out and disappear in the halls of his Mind Palace, but John has noticed since they began their relationship that he’s less likely to run off and shut himself in his mind, even during moments of pain. It’s rather endearing.

“Deep breath,” John soothes his hand over Sherlock’s back, pushing his knuckles gently into the bony bumps of his spine. After a few moments, he sits back up, his eyes watery, shaking hand still held in John’s. “There.” John holds up the Tacky Shit, then deposits it in the rubbish bin next to the sink (bit unsanitary, he really does need to grab a medical waste bin to go next to the needle box) and turns his attention back to Sherlock’s stinging hand. “Well, it ripped quite a bit of skin off…and you’re burned. I don’t know what possessed you to mix sugar and lighter fluid and whatever else, no matter what ‘express permission’ I did or did not give. You’re going to scar.”

“It hurts, John. Use the lidocaine.”

“Well, not now, Sherlock.” John rifles around on the floor, digging in the mess from some burn cream and gauze. Sherlock is staring at his hand still when John finds his supplies and turns back. There is a red, raw gouge on the back of his palm, angry and dark. Small beads of blood are starting to seep from broken capillaries. John switches hands carefully, and his other thumb starts to stroke and rub again. Sherlock crinkles his nose above him. He still hasn’t quite gotten used to affectionate touch. It’s quite adorable, even if the circumstances aren’t entirely optimal.

“What’s that?” John teases as leans over farther to give the wound a good look. He didn’t even think to get his cheaters, loathe to admit he now needs them. 

“It hurts.”

“It’s going to. You have a 2nd degree sugar burn and I just ripped your skin off. It’s going to hurt for quite a while. And so--” he pulls the cap off a syringe of sterile saline with his teeth. “--is this.” Sherlock hisses and stiffens as John gently douses his hand with the cold solution, wiping the excess with some gauze. He one-handedly twists off the cap of some Silvadene cream, dabs a bit on the searing flesh. The immediate coolness should be a relief. “There. It’s not too bad, you’ll live.” John looks up and smiles, a sardonic, I-can’t-believe-I-want-to-marry-such-an-idiot smile. 

Sherlock attempts one back and manages a grimace. John leans up and quickly pecks his tight lips then starts gently wrapping sterile gauze around Sherlock’s still trembling hand (he doesn’t mention the shaking outloud but squeezes reassuringly) and tapes it closed. 

“I have some co-codamol locked in my box. We’ll see if you need it. Now,” he stands up, lays Sherlock’s newly bandaged hand on his thigh. “Your shirt.”

“Use the lidocaine.”

“I’m not going to use it if I don’t need to. Let me check first,” John picks up the scissors and moves to stand next to Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock smells like burnt hair and whatever that shit was.

“You smell like burnt hair.”

“You smell like vomit and disinfectant, and….” He sniffs once, for emphasis. “Hepatitis.” He squirms when John takes ahold of his collar.

“Mmm…one older patient who did an arse-ton of drugs and then many puking children. It’s been a long day, love. Now sit still,” is all John says, and he cuts down the side of Sherlock’s collar (never mind, the shirt is ruined anyway) to down past where the Tacky Shit has adhered it to his skin just above his left pectoral and in the middle of his sternum. John cuts it all the way to the waistband of his trousers, then sets the scissors on the sink. “Ok, pull your arm out of the sleeve. It will make this easier.”

Sherlock clumsily maneuvers his right arm out of the shirt as John kneels on the tile floor. When he’s free and shakes the cut sleeve back behind him, John gently reaches forward and pulls the material back until it won’t give anymore. John can actually hear as Sherlock grinds his back teeth and takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Oh, calm down,” John stands up again, places a hand on Sherlock’s bare back. He can feel the scars under his palm and swallows hard. Scars Sherlock didn’t give himself. John presses lightly then reaches down to tug the cut material of Sherlock’s shirt. “I think I can pull this off better. It’s burned, but it looks like it’s just barely stuck to your skin. Thank God for over-priced cotton,” John tugs gently, then stops and rubs Sherlock’s back soothingly. Sherlock stiffens and takes a deep breath. “Stop me if it hurts too much.”

“Just do it, John,” Sherlock closes his eyes and swallows audibly. John tugs, lightly, and the shirt comes away fairly easily. Sherlock barely squeaks as it comes off this time.

“Ah, well,” John gets the material fully pulled away, then moves so he can lift Sherlock’s left arm (carefully taking his bandaged hand) out of the sleeve. He deposits the shirt, still tucked into Sherlock’s trousers, behind him. “That was easier!” John grabs a tube of Emla cream and kneels back on the floor. These aren’t nearly as bad; the skin is starting to blister, but none is sloughing or ripped off like his hand.

“Will I live?” Sherlock’s voice actually sounds shaky. John knows burns can often make a person more squeamish than other similar injuries might.

“Heh, I think so,” John dabs more of the cream on Sherlock’s chest and he shivers. “Yeah, it’s cold. Took some of your hair off, but these don’t look as bad as your hand.” John places a large plaster on Sherlock’s chest, then moves to rub some cream on the burn on his sternum. “These are 2nd degree too, but…I don’t think you’ll scar….” John’s voice trails off as he presses the second plaster over Sherlock’s skin. John’s eyes catch the healed gray notch just under Sherlock’s sternum. He has to grip Sherlock’s thigh to keep from pitching over as the familiar feelings rush over him.

He’s gotten better, so much better over the past few months. The bullet wound is mostly just a part of Sherlock now, another imperfection that makes his already beautiful body even more gorgeous. But on days like this, when John is already tired and irritated AND taking care of an injured Sherlock…well, it hits more like it used to. The days when John’s hurt and anger over Mary were still fresh and they were taking the first stumbling steps into the new Them. John would occasionally get physically ill if his eyes caught the scar and he wasn’t prepared for it, overwhelmed the rush of lingering grief and fear and indescribable relief that somehow Sherlock had given him another miracle and was alright. 

Now, John is reacting like he used to, breathing hard, one hand gripping Sherlock’s thigh tightly. The other is hovering lightly over his chest, centimeters away from the bullet scar, well-healed but still angry on Sherlock’s remarkably pale skin. Gently, very gently and before he can stop himself, John reaches out and touches the small knot of twisted, shiny skin, his fingertips just brushing lightly. John’s eyes squeeze shut, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath as his eyebrows knit together. He feels murderously angry on top of everything else. Too many people have tried to take Sherlock away from him.

“John?” Sherlock says softly, and lays his injured hand over John’s. John jumps slightly and blinks hard, looking around as if he’s forgotten where he is. He inhales sharply, clears his throat.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice is rough in his own ears and he blinks a few more times. Sherlock lets his hand fall back down again, and John removes his from his chest. He rubs Sherlock’s thigh and squeezes. “Sorry—yeah, I just…you’re all set.” John clears his throat again and stands, placing the tube of Emla on the sink. “What a mess,” he mumbles, to himself mostly, and bends to pick up the kit supplies still scattered on the bathroom floor. His headache is roaring as he reaches around to grab the contents of the first aid kit.

Really. Truly. Not what John was hoping to come home to.

“John.”

John looks up from the floor to where Sherlock is sitting on the toilet seat. He’s shirtless, bandages over his chest and hand, hair mussed and streaked with Tacky Shit. He’s eyes are still slightly watery and his face has that flushed pallor that accompanies pain and perhaps a slight bit of shock. He looks like he needs to crawl into bed just as much as John now does.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John knees his way over and reaches up, planting a soft kiss on Sherlock’s lips. He pulls back then leans back in for another, sweet and open-mouthed, catching Sherlock’s top lip between his. “You’re an idiot.”

“Lucky I have a good doctor.”

“That doesn’t mean you can blow up the kitchen, just because you have easy access to a medical professional.” John reaches up and twists a curl in his fingers. 

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you aren’t—” the crinkle in the bridge of Sherlock’s nose appears at John’s words. “—not for the explosion, I mean.” He scratches Sherlock’s scalp lightly. “Just…no more close calls for stupid reasons, alright? For me? I don’t know how much luck you have left in you.” John presses his palm against the scar on Sherlock’s chest, careful not to touch the bandaged burns. Sherlock’s heart is thumping wildly in his chest, but it’s strong and alive.

“You look tired, John.”

“I am, and I was hoping to not come home to a mess and a burned boyfriend.”

“It hurts.”

“Yeah, it’s going to…and you rather deserve it, you git.”

“Hrmph.”

“Yeah, yeah…no serious damage, so I’m allowed to say that,” John leans in for another quick kiss. “Tell you what. I’m going to grab some co-codamol. Just for tonight, though, you’re not dying. Then I’m gonna cut this shit out of your hair, and I’m going to order us a pizza and take a shower while you dispose of all the shit in the kitchen. Then we’re going to crawl into bed and eat and sleep.”

“It’s 6:30, John.”

“I know that, idiot. But I’m exhausted and you’re going to feel both that and the co-codamol in a bit. I’d like nothing more than to lie in bed and eat crap pizza and snuggle up to my idiot.”

“John…” Sherlock’s face scrunches, but a slight pink flushes his cheeks. He may pretend to squirm and sneer at John’s more sentimental side, but deep down, he loves it when John orders him to stop moving and stay still with him.

“No arguments.” John ruffles Sherlock’s hair then stands and kisses his forehead once before shoving the first aid kit back in the cabinet and heading to their bedroom.

***

An hour and a half later, John is balancing Sherlock’s head on his shoulder and a plate full of pizza on his knee. Game of Thrones is running on the telly. Sherlock is ignoring the telly, fiddling with something on John’s iPad. Suddenly, he speaks.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock’s voice is soft and slowed just a bit by the co-comadol. “I mean, for scaring you.”

John sighs. He hears more than just an apology for this particular evening in Sherlock’s words “I know, love. Just,” John reaches up and rests his hand on the back of Sherlock’s head. “No more homemade napalm. No more stupid things without reason, not without me there. No more close calls, Sherlock. Not even…just, I don’t mind patching you up. But wait until I’m there with you, alright? Please.” 

Sherlock lays the iPad on the bed beside him and lifts John’s hand to his mouth. John isn’t expecting him to promise anything, to promise to stop or to be careful. And truthfully, John would never want him to, because it would be fundamentally not-Sherlock to do something like that. But he has to say it. He always says it, when Sherlock hurts himself or is more careless with his own well-being than John would prefer, or even when John simply gets caught up in the mark on Sherlock’s chest.

“It’s just some burns, John,” but Sherlock kisses John’s knuckles and tucks his hand under his chin.

“And you’re just a real dickhead, you know that?” John says affectionately, tugging on a curl. He settles his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and pushes his right foot between Sherlock’s calves. “You also need to eat more pizza. You’ve barely had any.”

“Not hungry.” Sherlock lays his large hand on John’s stomach, the bandage impeding the warmth of his touch through John’s t-shirt.

“What have you eaten today?”

“I had some of Mrs. Hudson’s tea cakes.”

“Oh, yes, a balanced diet,” John retrieves his left hand from under Sherlock’s chin and picks up a piece of pizza from his plate. He brings it over to Sherlock’s mouth. “Eat.”

Sherlock grunts but cranes his neck to take a bite of the pizza. “Good boy,” John scratches Sherlock’s shoulder lightly as he chews and swallows, then leans forward for another bite. His eyes settle on the screen where King Joffrey is slowly strangling to death from poison. John presses a kiss to his head and lifts the pizza to take a bite himself. He can sleep tomorrow; he’s only part time at the surgery and he’s not due back until Monday. Sherlock reaches up to nudge John’s hand, indicating he wants another bite. John rolls his eyes and complies, then turns his attention back to the screen.

_This_ is what he had been hoping to come home to.

 


End file.
